


Sometimes, Not Always and Often

by shihadchick



Category: U2, Virgin Prunes
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-02
Updated: 2005-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:25:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes based in the AU where members of U2 and the Virgin Prunes share a flat in Dublin in the 70s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes, Not Always and Often

_i. skirtlifting_

It’s something about the skirt.

Or, rather, the skirts. Hanging carefully in the wardrobe, the cleanest part of the room, something he’s nearly pathological about keeping neat.

Edge stands there, half-registering the sound of the shower in the room next door, trailing his index finger across the different fabrics, from his good winter coat (hung next to Guggi’s, his lone investment in this space, and one hard-negotiated for) to Guggi’s, the roughened pads of his fingers catching on the thickly woven wool. Across into denim; denim jacket, one pair of folded (carefully ripped) jeans. One denim skirt. A long frightfully patterned floral cotton thing that, frankly, he doesn’t think Guggi has ever worn and suspects was probably a poorly chosen (if well-intended) thrift store rescue by Bono. There’s a short, cream one somewhere too, one that did uncomfortable things to Edge when he saw him wear it, but it’s either in the wash or lent out, because it’s not hung up right now.

Humming quietly to himself, barely aware of what he’s doing he sweeps his hand back to the left, watching the colours and patterns swirl in his wake. Even if asked, with the best intentions in the world he doesn’t think he could put what he’s thinking into words. It’s nebulous at best, but mostly it’s just a focus, a drift sideways into colour and texture, slipping sensation.

With a little flick of his wrist he sets the hanger at the end to shaking, a sine wave rippling down the fabric as he takes the half step back, sitting on the end of the bed (their bed.)

By dint of carefully planned interruptions in flagrante they’d managed to briefly evict both Gavin and Bono (complaining bitterly and shooting them highly significant glances which he apparently thought subtle) two days ago – to the obvious detriment of the couch and Adam’s peace of mind, given he was now sharing his room not only with Larry but with Gavin. A Gavin who was loudly unimpressed by whatever noises and laughter drifted through the plasterboard walls. Not that Edge or Guggi paid their grumbles much attention.

“Don’t think it’s really your colour, Edge.”

He turned to the door, an easy smile on his lips, hands dropping back to clasp in his lap, favouring him with an approving look.

“Doesn’t need to be though, does it?” He can’t help himself, indulging in a deliberate head-to-toe appraisal as Guggi stalks into the room, going just a little light-headed and glad he’s already sitting down. “That’s- ehm. That’s new. Isn’t it?”

He just smirks, stocking-clad feet soundless on the thin old carpet as he moves closer to the bed, slim hips wrapped in a short black skirt that makes Edge swallow hard around an increasingly dry mouth.

The tiny little wicked grin he’s wearing speaks volumes and Edge realises he’s not going to get another word out of him any time soon. He manages to maintain the silence for about a minute, just watching, shuffling over a little to make room for him to sit easily (elegantly) beside him, skirt riding up his thighs (oh God, that’s- those are garters, aren’t they? Jesus.) And it’s hotter than it has any right to be, Edge thinks wildly, and he can’t bite his tongue any longer, can’t play this game, has to play the other, and his hand is at Guggi’s knee a bare moment later, palm brushing feather-light over the thin fabric, pushing up.

“Suits you, this does.”

Fingertips creeping under a hemline, trying not to snag bitten nails in the silk, leaving rough red crescents etched into the muscle just above the elastic.

“Looks- looks really fucking good on you.”

Cotton rucked up around his wrist now, fingers splayed starfish-wide, warm and dry on his lover’s skin.

Slipping from the bed to his knees, palm sliding around a hundred eighty degrees but not losing contact, bracing himself with a hand on the mattress, a counter-balance that, once established, shifts to stroke at his flank, grasping.

“I shouldn’t- shouldn’t want you so much, like this.” Breathing a little faster now, fascination warring with impatience, wriggling forward on his knees, between Guggi’s, the skirt bunching up around his hips, and no, he’s not- he isn’t-

Edge swallows harder, whimpering a careless little sound, a helpless vocalisation that sneaks out between his lips and hangs in the air between them.

“It’s- you, how do you make this look so good?” Hardly even aware of what he’s saying now, eyes glued, wide and hungry.

“Fuck, Guggi…” the last just barely audible, floating out on the sigh as he wriggles closer yet and Guggi’s knees press at his sides, holding him warm and safe as he ducks his head, pressing a kiss just above his knee, then up, dragging the tip of his tongue beside the garter strap, shifting to the other leg, teeth scraping over bare skin. Head between his legs, under his skirt, loving the lewd thrill of it, the heat and taste of him, loving him.

Loving him into submission, to prone, whimpering, mewling surrender, sprawled on his back, limbs akimbo, legs dangling, fingers twisted into Edge’s hair, eyes squeezed so tightly shut that he has to be seeing stars, body shaking and twitching with the sunbursts behind his eyelids, skin dancing to the notes Edge’s mouth dictates.

Swiping the back of his hand carelessly across his mouth as he crawls bonelessly over the covers, sprawling limp beside Guggi, tucking himself into the curve of his chest, head heavy at his shoulder, muttering busy little imprecations, scolding affection and helpless endearments into his flesh.

“I do hope,” Guggi murmurs, breaking his silence at last, (gasps and little moans not counting, of course) “that this isn’t an indication of how you’re going to react when I wear this on stage.”

Edge just smiles, and holds his tongue.

 

* * * * * * * * * * *

 

 _ii. sometimes, not always, and often._

sometimes they’re loud, and wild, and falling off and out of the bed, hard up against the wall, moaning gasping elated. sometimes it’s all they can do afterwards just to breathe, on their backs millimetres apart, even the gentlest touch overheating and painful to raw nerves, staring up at the ceiling blindly with their hearts racing, deafening in the silence. sometimes there are bruises that last for days, (and they can be made last longer, too, and there’s a thrill to that too, something that he’s not sure he should enjoy as much as he does, though really that’s more of an overriding theme, isn’t it?) and sometimes there are just the fading pink scores of nail on back and arse, shoulder and neck, gone in an hour.

often they are fast, and hot; rushing headlong from one climax to another, other times they’ll tease for hours until it hurts, until coming is nearly an agony, and yet it’s one that neither would trade, could deny. they are need and want, naked and lean and squirming with the effort of containing it all. flush with their youth, and full of all the wisdom that goes with it. foolish, and prone to spats on occasion - though not as many as they could, because when it comes down to it, they really are a fine match.

the best times, though, are the quieter ones. the ones that are all the more precious for their subtlety. as much as he adores bedding Guggi, loves the heat and rush of orgasm, the heavy-lidded satisfaction that goes with feeling him shatter and fall, blissful, as much as he loves all of that (and he does, though ‘love’ isn’t really the word an eighteen year old boy wants to admit to, and in fact he feels very much like he’s letting the side down, both for using it and feeling it, and for the way it fills more than just the physical) as much as he does, it is nothing compared his head in Guggi’s lap as they watch the Late Late Show on the telly, as Guggi’s fingers pick idle paths across his scalp, stroking fondly, careless in the unthinking warmth of affection. nothing compared to sprawling around the messy living room, coffee mugs scattered in with the debris of four or five packets of biscuits - the troops having done their best before clearing the field - and before they pick themselves up to tidy after their fellows there is the moment where he lets his head fall back to rest on the couch, Guggi curled at his knee, fingers coiled solidly around his calf, and something in that, something in that is so unspeakably erotic that he’s still remembering it, reliving it at odd moments weeks later.

sometimes it’s awkward, and weird, and kind of, well, squelchy (in the emotional sense, that is, though, okay, sometimes in the other, but that’s just funny, really, because when it comes down to it, how silly is this whole sex business anyway?) sometimes it’s just hilarious. sometimes it’s reading til you fall asleep, or reading each other to sleep, or some combination thereof, tempering the bond further even without touch.

sometimes it’s ‘no, not now,’ and grumpiness and unreasonably foul moods. sometimes it’s carefully going in two different directions of a morning because two halves of one whole truly are greater than the sum of their parts, and sometimes their parts need something (and someone) else. which is exactly as it should be.

their coexistence is neither peaceful nor coherent, often confusing and frequently exhilarating (unsettling) but if all you can depend on is the jolt in your stomach when your lover walks in the door and the certainty welded to your spine that he is yours, well, then, the state of affairs is certainly satisfactory, in anyone’s book, and most especially inked with approval into his.

he can’t remember it being any other way. doesn’t want to. there’s just this. them. for as long as they care to be.

 

* * * * * * * * * * *

 

 _iii. ...in paradise: another ramble through edge/guggi_

 

The damages, when totalled later and held to their account, are considerable. Adam floats the suggestion that they record affairs for future posterity, and laughing, the other three agree. The guilty twosome decide their shoes are the most fascinating things they’ve ever seen and observe accordingly, mutely shrugging off the taunts.

Item: One coffee mug. Kicked over five minutes or so into proceedings, careening wildly into the leg of the end table, on just the right angle to crack across its equator.

Item: One chair. Knocked over by one of four ankles in a rolling tangle across the rug and coming to a bad end when three of the four legs (human) ended up bashing into two of the four legs (chair.)

Not a total loss as there was really only room for two chairs properly at that table and it was already noticeably rickety. This one they can write off quite safely.

Item: Multiple contusions on calves and thighs (due to previously mentioned altercation with furniture.)

Personal damage is judged as being outside the purview of this panel, however, and thus along with the following point, non-inclusive for the purposes of sentencing.

Item: Rug burn. From some indeterminate point, and quite mortifying to admit to after the fact, but impossible to hide from the prying eyes of their flatmates.

If they’d been in the mood for full disclosure there would also have been the addition to their list of sins of further damage to the springs of the couch. Unavoidable, and thus, also not worth counting, they decide as part of a hurried confab, harsh whispers behind a closed door. They’ve covered up and mended what little they can, in the brief space between coming to their senses again - breathing hard, nervy and shaking afterwards - and being caught red-handed.

Item: Coffee stains on the rug. And the carpet. And the lino.

Item: A load of exceptionally dirty tea towels and one torn t-shirt. The rest of the kitchen towels used up and thrown out in an attempt to hide some of the evidence (and the look from Larry at that is simply priceless.)

Item: One small scratch to the side of the case holding Edge’s pedals, author unknown.

This the most agonising damage to the room, but judged as fair play given his liability in events.

The jury of four do not deliberate long, merely give them yet another Look each, variously long-suffering, vaguely tolerant irritation combined with a token amusement, before - with a glare at the others for making him spokesman - Bono pronounces sentence: all the washing up for the next week and replacing what’s broken.

They take their punishment meekly, and it’s not until the others have cleared out down the pub and they’re left working in near silence, one with the Hoover and the other the mop that they speak again.

“You do realise you’re going to have to admit it eventually, right?”

“Maybe.”

An uncomfortable silence. This is mostly resolved, (the reason they didn’t manage to hide more of the evidence, talking more important) but all the same… all the same, there’s something underneath it all that stings a lot worse than the bruises.

“You know they think we were fucking, right?”

He’s trying to change the tone, the mood, back to the silliness of their ‘trial’, back to hiding inside the shells of good humour and ‘ah, it’ll be grand.’

It doesn’t work, entirely, because all he can say to that is, dully, “I wish we had been.”


End file.
